Who Fixes the Fixer who Fixes?
by Rahndom
Summary: The so-called Civil-War has come and gone by the time Tony discovers the location of the former Winter Soldier and he takes it upon himself to get the revenge he so promised to his mom's memory. He will kill The Winter Soldier. He will save Bucky Barnes.
1. Prologue

The light hurt his eyes as it made its way into the supposedly hidden chamber where he thought he would be living - no, not living, existing - for the foreseeable future, and wasn't that an odd situation? If he was not supposed to see any light, be it artificial or natural ever again?

"Maybe we should kiss him," a voice said to his right, making the pit of his stomach settle with dread. "That would shake his 1940's sensitivities awake."

"I believe that would not be ethical, my friend," another replied with half fond amusement and half horrified disbelief.

"Humph," the first voice huffed. "You are too good for this world, kitty cat."

James opened his eyes...

... and stared into Anthony Stark's glinting honey ones.

"Stark," he said slowly, throat protesting its disuse with a croak.

Stark raised an eyebrow.

"Barnes," he mocked, his lips curling in a way so achingly Howard that the guilt coiling inside his stomach spiked and burned like acid, weighing his whole body down onto his weakened knees. Had he been not been strapped against the wall of his cryobox he would have fallen face first onto the floor.

He allowed his eyes to close, the ice-cold lump in his throat settling into a hazy sort of clarity, of a purpose he had been eager for and yet not able to voice less he face Stevie's heartbroken baby blue eyes.

Now, face to face with Iron Man himself, the face of the one he had wronged so many years ago, the child he had orphaned with his own two hands...

He leaned back against the wall, his neck arching, his hands splaying against the metal, his posture open and ready... He knew Stark's hand would be swift and merciful, that his revenge would be quick.

He closed his eyes, ready and at peace.

A beat of silence enveloped him.

"Oh for the love of..." Stark snapped, one hand on the door, just as the other - the one with the red and gold gauntlet, the one with the strength to overcome human limitation - was pulled back lightening quick before crashing against his cheek, forcing his face to the side, his skin to redden, his eyes to flash open in shock.

"Anthony!" T'Challa gasped, one hand ready to pull the other man back.

Stark's hands sized his shoulders, strength born out of rage he pulled James forward, so impossibly close their breath seemed to twist and join the cold air.

"You don't get to do that, Barnes," he snarled, ignoring the Wakandan King behind him. "You won't make me help you ease your conscience."

James blinked at him, his eyes wide, defeated.

"I deserve your anger..." he whispered, unable to keep looking into the other man's face. "I don't deserve to live after all I..."

Stark stared, his lips pulled back, his eyes narrowed.

"You are right, you don't," he agreed, nodding to himself. "But you don't get to take the easy way out either!"

T'Challa's hand on Stark's shoulder retreated.

James locked eyes with the man, anger simmering.

"The easy way out? Easy?!" he snapped back, angry, hurt and vicious the way Stevie seldom saw him. "You think it's easy? Living like this? Knowing I did what I did? You think I can live like this?!"

"You should! We all have to live with the guilt and try to make amends and fret and cry when our efforts go sour!" Stark snarled. "You don't get to sleep off your mistakes just because Captain fucking America says so."

James shook his head, eyes wide in disbelief.

"I'm the Winter Soldier," he stammered. "I'm dangerous."

Stark rolled his eyes.

"I'm the goddamn Iron Man, he's the Black Panther," he said dismissively. "We are all fucking dangerous, and you know what we do? We live on and we do our best day by day because that's what people do. I was the fucking Merchant of Death for years and you don't see me hiding away for a guilt free nap."

James' frown deepened, his anger still boiling inside him being appeased by his innate curiosity.

"What do you want from me?" he asked.

Stark's lips pursed.

"I want you to come back home, to get help, get better and maybe one day be human again," he explained, his eyes haunted.

James blinked.

"Why?"

Stark's lips sank onto his bottom lip.

"The Winter Soldier killed my mother," he said honestly, in a forcedly detached manner that spoke of still aching trauma. "I thought for a long while what I would do if I ever saw you again, how I would get even... And then it struck me."

Stark's oddly warm, calloused and scarred yet gentle hands tightened on his shoulders.

"The only way I can get revenge on the Winter Soldier and still honor my mom's memory..." he hesitated. "Is to make sure the Soldier is dead and Bucky Barnes comes out alive."

T'Challa's hand came back to Stark's shoulder, this time more a show of support than an attempt at contention.

"So, what do you say, Buckcicle?" he asked with practiced nonchalance. "Will you let me kill that fucker and make you whole again, or will you go back to hiding your head in the sand?"

James hesitated.

Stark sighed.

"There are going to be ground rules, of course," he said, as if talking about the weather. "You will be required to sleep in the Cradle until your therapist deems you stable enough to be moved to another, more stylish floor and…"

"Cradle?" T'Challa asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Oh, just a special room I had built for the days when Brucie was feeling a little green around the edges…"

"… You are talking about your Dr. Banner," the King surmised, nodding.

"Don't look at me like that, Hello Kitty," Stark scowled. "The Cradle is definitely not what you are imagining, it's a completely furbished room… just Hulk-proofed."

James imagined a room made for Dr. Banner, and could vaguely remember reading about The Hulk and all its green glory.

He guessed he could live in a room like that.

"You'll also have to have your sessions submitted to me as your primary guardian, so there won't be much of Doctor-Patient confidentiality in the beginning. And I'll have Friday monitor you 24-7, just to make sure you are not going to go cuckoo for cocoa puffs, which has nothing to do with you being brainwashed from Berlin to Beirut but with all the issues and PTSD you are surely carrying around," Stark continued, undaunted. "She does the same for all so don't think you'll be a special lil' princess to her."

"All?" James asked weakly, feeling overwhelmed by such a barrage of information.

Stark raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, all," he said slowly. "Me, you, Rhodey who is currently recuperating after his last meet up with the fabulous swan queen and Vision who refuses to leave if I am, and I quote, 'dead set on endangering my life by pursuing such hazardous hobbies' so yeah, you get roomies this time around."

James shook his head for a second, then stopped, his brows furrowing in thought.

Steve's face floated to the forefront of his mind then, the way his eyes held only worry and love for him when he told him he'd rather go back to the ice, and yes the way his shoulders slumped, how his whole face was one of cautious relief.

Steve wanted him safe and sleeping, where nothing could hurt him again.

James was silent then. His rage now completely gone.

A thousand different thoughts swirling in his brain while he locked his gaze with Stark's.

A part of him missed New York, the noise, the smell, the feeling of belonging.

A part of him wanted to stop feeling guilty, wanted to stop being a burden.

A part of him feared Stevie's reaction if he ever found out Stark had found him.

A part of him wanted to feel whole again.

A darker, smaller, almost imperceptible part of him craved the order, the sense of purpose and of belonging to something...

... to someone.

He shook his head.

"When do we leave?" he asked with a whisper, refusing to aknowledge, much less try to interpret, the fluttering inside of him when Stark and T'Challa's eyes widened and small, triumphant smiles curled their lips.


	2. Machine Oil & Soap

"… Then again you seem rather more adjusted and rested than Mr. Stark led me to believe."

James could only stare, unsure of himself.

It had only taken Stark a few minutes to haul him into a plane – not a plane, a fucking supersonic jet – all the while invading his personal space and babbling the few hours of trip away about everything and nothing and a little bit of something in between and, by the time James had realized, he was sitting on a bed that seemed to be made out of fucking clouds and reinforced steel – no, not steel, that would be silly, fucking adamantium alloy that somehow Stark got from a friend of a friend – and there was a camping bag full of everything he could ever need and clothes that actually fit him and a schedule for him printed onto a bulletproof glass window that would beep and change colors whenever one of his doctor-suggested appointments was due and now he was sitting in front of a blond woman in the most stylish, yet highly inappropriate white business suits in the history of … well, ever, while she studied him like one would study a lab-rat of dubious origin.

… and apparently, this was Dr. Frost, his new therapist.

… did he also mention she had a huge rack?

Because she did.

And she was really visibly not ashamed of it.

Quite the opposite in fact.

So, this was his life now… huh.

He blinked.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, unsure how to proceed.

Dr. Frost removed her gold-rimmed glasses, his face never losing her stern and unimpressed expression as she methodically cleaned the lenses with a soft cloth.

"I said, that given Mr. Stark's report I was expecting someone a lot less adjusted, less rested, Mr. Barnes," she said, raising an eyebrow. "I wanted it to be a conversation opener, if you will."

James nodded.

"Huh…" he said, unsure how to comment to that.

Dr. Frost sighed.

"And there it is," she said then, taking notes on her clipboard. "I assure you, Mr. Barnes, that this is a safe space for you to talk, I have seen cases like yours before, not quite to such extreme, mind you, but I am confident you will not feel shocked by anything you tell me today."

James frowned.

"You don't know me, Lady," he hissed, feeling himself angry without any real explanation.

He did that, most of the time.

Dr. Frost rolled her eyes.

"I am aware of that, Mr. Barnes," she said simply, shrugging her shoulders. "Which is why I am here trying non-conventional conversation starters."

James frowned, uncomfortable.

"No, you don't get it," he snapped, arm instantly going to wrap around his middle, and how he missed his metal arm now, the sense of security it brought. "I'm not safe."

"I already told you this is a safe place, Mr. Barnes," she repeated. "Nothing that you say…"

"I COULD SNAP AND HURT YOU!" he interrupted, his hand clenched against his shirt.

Dr. Frost took off her glasses once more, her face a perfect picture of indifference.

"I assure you, Mr. Barnes, I have vast experience in treating patients with war backgrounds such as yours," she said, her voice soft, cold as ice. "And I have further studied the effects of mental coercion and stress, my credentials precede me."

James opened his mouth to further explain how dangerous he actually was, how he could easily lose himself, how he could just reach with his hand and…

She raised a hand, stopping him.

"Also, I treated Dr. Banner, Mr. Barnes," she said, reaching with a carefully manicured hand towards an, until then, hidden set of metal hand weights, picking one between two dainty fingers. "And I will tell you the exact same thing I told him."

Before James' eyes Dr. Frost's whole hand started turning into diamonds, actual, honest to god, diamonds, the stones glinting under the sunlight gently filtering through her window.

In seconds her hand contracted, the weights emitting a horrible shriek before twisting and curling, and finally falling, a misshapen mess, from her hand.

She grinned, sharp, dark, like a predator.

"There is very little you could do to hurt me, Mr. Barnes."

James gulped, his eyes wide.

Dr. Frost put on her glasses back on, her lips curling into a ruby-red smile.

"Now, are we ready to talk?"

James sat back, gapping like a fish for a moment.

Dr. Frost nodded to herself, visibly satisfied.

"Tell me about your parents?" she offered.

James opened his mouth.

"Well…"

James made it back to The Tower - Avengers Tower, Stark Tower; none seemed to fit anymore - with his whole body furrowed inside an oversized hoodie he had stealthily acquired from a clothing rack downtown, feeling sore and exposed like an open wound.

Dr. Frost sure knew what she was doing.

... He hoped.

He made his way into the tower without acknowledging anyone and growling at the elevator to move faster onto his floor, avoiding every beam of artificial light and human banter.

The Cradle, surprisingly, was dimly light, blissfully silent and completely empty.

Well, empty except for the icy pitcher of sweet-smelling lemonade... and a bagel.

Oh, and a neon yellow sticky note specifically placed on his pillow, written in an almost intelligible chicken scratch in red sharpie.

 **'SLEEP ALL YOU NEED BUT TRY TO DRINK AND EAT A LITTLE. YOU ARE FORMARLY EXCUSED FROM TONIGHT'S DINNER.'**

He found his lips curling despite himself.

He drank a glass almost mechanically, picked up the bagel between two fingers, staring at it until his stomach turned, and then, finally he went to bed, falling asleep before his head hit the pillow.

He dreamt of a small apartment in the middle of a noisy city, of the smell of potatoes roasting under red-hot coals as well as the familiar feeling of well-worn cotton against his skin.

He dreamt of the laughter of little girls as they snuggled into his side, their bony hands curling against his fingers in search for his attention.

He could hear his own laughter - or a sound that seemed to come out of his own throat that once upon a time might have been his laughter - as he tried to maneuver the eager little girls in his lap among their joyous chorus of 'Jimmy!' and 'Jimbo' and 'I love you, big bro' that filled his chest with the sweetest warmth and the cruelest longing.

How he loved these three little ones.

How he wished he had them by his side once more.

A slender hand carded through his hair making him look up into silver eyes so much like his own, yet alien in the depth of their emotions, of their love.

"Girls, stop bothering your brother or you will kill him," the person said in a voice out of pure delight, making all three little girls groan in protest.

"But, Mooom," they complained, tightening their hold on James' arms. "We love Big Bro!"

"I don't mind, Ma'," he assured. Resting his chin on one of his sister's dark curls. "I missed the three terrors myself."

The person before him - goodness gracious, his mother - smiled at him with infinite patience, leaning over to kiss the crown of his head.

"Whatever you say, Jimmy," she whispered softly, eyes closed, as if trying to memorize the way he looked, the way he smelled, trying to commit him to memory forever.

James felt himself close his eyes and lean into the woman's warmth, trying to steal as much as he could of it for himself.

A part of him told him he would need it once he was shipped over to the front the next week.

"Jimmy," the woman whispered suddenly, her voice soft like the summer breeze, as cool.

"Yeah," he said, still basking in her scent of machine oil and laundry soap.

"Whatever happens…" she hesitated for a moment. "Whatever you see in Europe, please remember that I'm proud of you, that I love you, okay?"

James opened his eyes, blinking at his mother in askance.

The woman's smile turned tremulous, bitter.

"I was too chicken shit to tell that to your Pop when he left for the war…" those gentle eyes slid from his and onto her clenched hands, her golden wedding band now resting on the mantle. "I want you to know I love you, no matter what…"

James nodded, closing his eyes again, unable to form words.

He would carry his mother's love in the front and beyond.

James opened his eyes with a gasp, his forehead peppered with sweat, his heartbeat hammering against his ribcage.

His hand ached for a piece of paper, a notebook, a pen, anything.

"Sargeant Barnes?" the mechanical voice of FRIDAY called from the walls. "Your vitals are going off the charts and I believe you are experiencing what I've been instructed is a panic attack and I feel the need to notify Sir so…"

"NO!" James snapped, his hand clenching against his bedding.

"FRIDAY, what is…" Stark called, stepping into the room. Then stopped, staring at him with wide, honey-colored eyes.

James felt his chest tighten and a lump for in his throat.

Of all the people that could have come to his supposed aid it just had to be Stark, right? Of course Stark had to show up instead of sending someone more qualified… less personal.

He swallowed thickly.

"I'm sorry…" he whimpered, unable to control himself.

Stark blinked once, twice, his long eyelashes – how come they were that long? How come he was now noticing them? – fanning the air as he did so.

"What…?" he asked softly, his bare shoulders squared, his grease-stained hands tense.

James ran a hand through his long hair, as long as his sister Evelyn had once worn hers.

He clenched his eyes shut, trying to take shuddering breaths.

"I'm sorry…" he whispered again, feeling his body grow heavy and still, as if he was slowly turning into stone. Could Stark see it too? The way he was slowly going still? "I'm sorry, so sorry."

Stark's black and blue, warm hands, grasped his shoulders, pushing him forward to press his face against his spread knees.

"Come on, Barnes," he urged. "Breathe."

James wanted to push him away, to scream that he didn't want to be touched, but Stark invaded his personal space slowly, making sure not to startle him any more than he already did, pulling his hair away from his face and gently tying it at the nape of his neck.

"You are having an anxiety attack," he explained simply. "Tell me if you need to puke, it happens a lot in my experience."

James shook his head, feeling himself sag back and forth as he struggled to breath.

Stark ran one hand over his back, trying to sooth his clenching muscles.

The other he ran over his forehead, pushing his sweat-soaked hair back.

James finally realized.

Stark's warm, calloused hands…

… smelled of machine oil and cheap soap, of wear and soot.

He emptied his stomach on both of their shirts.

"Woah, shit!" Stark yelped, reaching with his hand to push a small plastic container under his mouth, redirecting his heaving face towards it. "Come on, buddy, let it all out…?"

James continued to vomit until his whole torso ached, sore, his throat felt on fire and his eyes watered with effort, his breathing was labored and his legs could hardly support his exhausted weight.

Start continued to hold onto him, his fingers slow, careful.

He opened his eyes when a worn piece of cloth was pushed against his cheek and lips, wiping the mess from his skin as best as Stark could, given their position.

"Ninna nanna, ninna ohh," James blinked as he realized Stark was softly whispering. "Questo Nino a chi lo do…"

He slowly closed his eyes, unsure how to react as Stark continued to clean him up.

"Se lo do al… Lupo Bianco?" Stark continued. "Me lo tiene tanto tanto…"

James chuckled weakly, the sound echoing in the silence of the room.

"What the fuck is that…?" he found himself asking once he was finally able to breath normally.

Stark blinked once more at him, his cheeks coloring.

"It's something that helps me calm down when I have attacks," he explained nervously. "And before you say it, I know I don't know how to sing…"

James nodded.

"You don't…" he agreed. "You also suck at Italian."

Stark raised an eyebrow, his lips pursing.

"I am fluent in ten different languages," he defended himself.

"But that's not how you say 'baby' in Italian," James pointed out, taking a deep breath and forcing his muscles to relax.

"… and you are feeling well enough to be sassy," Stark muttered, taking a step back. "So I'm guessing you are better now?"

James nodded, idly wondering if he had said something he shouldn't.

"Then you need a shower… we both do."

James nodded once more, weakly reaching with his hand when Stark released him.

"I need to apologize," he said, locking his gaze with Stark's brown one.

The other man frowned at him.

"I'm sure that can wait until we both don't stink like-"

"I remembered my mother," James interrupted, forcing Stark into silent shock.

"What…?" the older man asked.

"I remember every person I've ever killed as the Winter Soldier," he began, practically ignoring Stark's tensing body. "Each and every one of their names and faces."

Stark's hand, still smelling of oil and soap, tightened on his shoulder.

James swallowed the bile once again rising on his throat.

"But they are all faces, dates, names… they are all data…" he admitted.

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

"But I remembered my mother, the way she looked, the way she smelled… she was working at a factory, I remember, she always smelled of cheap laundry soap and machine oil, her fingers were broken in different places, calloused…" he looked down to his soiled lap. "like yours…"

"What does that have to do with your victims…?" Stark whispered, as if afraid he'd break the spell that had fallen over them.

"Killing Maria Stark was an abstract to me, a face and a name among many others…" James whispered back, almost breathlessly. "But then I remembered my own mother, and I thought, she was a mother too, she had someone who she loved with the same intensity my mother loved me…"

Stark nodded, his jaw tight.

"And it feels so different now, to know that…" James turned, once more facing Stark. "And I'm so sorry…"

Stark swallowed audibly, his fingers trembling against James' skin.

"I… don't think I can forgive you… not yet," he admitted, standing up. "But knowing that my mother is no longer a name on a list to you… it helps, as selfish as it sounds."

James nodded meekly, watching the other man walk towards the door.

"Go take a shower, Sergeant," Stark said. "You need it badly."

James stood himself, wondering how long it would take him to wash all the vomit from his clothes and his hair… and whether he could stand the thought of cutting it. Or if he could stand before the mirror and wonder if his sister looked like him, if he could stomach knowing she probably didn't.

"Stark…" he called before the man could leave the room.

"Yes?" Stark replied, almost half-way out of the door.

"Baby in Italian," he said, feeling himself foolish. "It's Bambino, not Nino."

Stark swallowed, his back still to James.

"I know…"

The door to the room closed and James was once more alone.


End file.
